IOh tear-filled figure who, like a sky held back,grows heavy above the landscape of her sorrow.And when she weeps, the gentle raindrops fall,slanting upon the sand-bed of her heart.

O heavy with weeping. Scale to weigh all tears.Who felt herself not sky, since she was shiningand sky exists only for clouds to form in.

How clear it is, how close, your land of sorrow,beneath the stearn sky's oneness. Like a facethat lies there, slowly waking up and thinkinghorizontally, into endless depths.

IIIt is nothing but a breath, the void.And that green fulfillmentof blossoming trees: a breath.We, who are still the breathed-upon,today still the breathed-upon, countthis slow breathing of earth,whose hurry we are.

IIIAh, but the winters! The earth's mysteriousturning-within. Where around the deadin the pure receding of sap,boldness is gathered,the boldness of future springtimes.Where imagination occursbeneath what is rigid; where all the greenworn thin by the vast summersagain turns into a newinsight and the mirror of intuition;where the flowers' colorwholly forgets that lingering of our eyes.